Passing the Fire
by Sterling Lee
Summary: Balinor in "The Last Dragonlord." Blood will out, no matter the circumstances or the separation. In which Merlin is incomprehensible, Balinor tries his best to be a father, and fire is overused as a metaphor.


_Author's Note:_ I promised a lot of things, but none of them were this. I was abruptly swallowed by _Merlin_; it's tremendous fun (even if I'm not quite sure why anyone lets Merlin leave the house on his own, ever). This super short piece is based on the season 2 finale, _The Last Dragonlord._ That episode ripped my heart right the heck out, so here's my attempt at making it a little more bearable.

* * *

Balinor hears dragons' rumbling voices in his dream, the night before Merlin comes. While he rolls in his sleep they stretch and rattle their wings, they raise their great heads and spew gouts of fire. He stands among them and does not move: only listens.

Morning. He takes to the woods, alert, not knowing what stirred the currents but conscious of something that moves on the horizon of his little world. Swollen hours pass in which he hunts, paces, waits.

In the afternoon, cries and the ring of steel on steel come rolling over the hill. Balinor makes himself scarce.

What comes is no warrior. Instead, a long gangly strip of a boy who moves like a fawn in the brush. Big ears, lightfooted but uncertain, roving eyes. A funny-looking kid, really, and Balinor digs deep but can't find what he needs to see him as an enemy.

He comes close to it when he finds out who the boy's "friend" is. He sees Uther's brow, his strong jaw, and, for a moment, sees red. But Merlin's eyes are on him, curiously bright. His mouth is tight and trembling and Balinor lets Arthur Pendragon be.

As he tends to the prince's wound, he tries to see someone other than Uther in his face. Surely that nose, those lips and deep-set eyes, belonged to a woman who could have caught and gentled Uther.

Igraine was not queen for long enough.

While he works, Merlin _hovers_. His white hands fly nervously in the corners of Balinor's vision, tugging at his scarf and twisting in the hem of his tunic. He swallows, sometimes, what Balinor feels must be words that well up unbidden from deep inside him. It's hard to look at him because at each turn Balinor meets something spilling over in his gaze—it's too much.

"Didn't your mother teach you not to stare, boy?" he grunts, while Arthur stirs and sighs on the blankets. Merlin starts, chewing his bottom lip.

"No—yes, sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" He subsides, looking wounded, and Balinor wants for one mad second to tell him, _No, it's not your fault. You want too much of me, that's all. I have nothing to give, won't you just go away?_

He refuses the boys' plea as soon as he can—this, he thinks, must be the reason for the deadly hope in Merlin's eyes. Poor fool wants him to be a hero.

He turns Arthur down even faster, because when the boy comes to him, the last of the magic fading from his healing shoulder, he holds his head high and in the clean proud lines of his face Balinor glimpses a king. Anything to be able to turn away from that. He is noble and desperate and only a boy, but in _his_ eyes he has a kingdom.

Whatever it is that Merlin's hiding in his head, whatever heavy words, try to force their way out one more time before they go. He bites them back, disappointed and bitter. Fighting with his face and his rising tears he turns his back. Balinor tries to be relieved.

He sits for a long time on the tumbledown rocks by the shore. Behind his closed eyes, dragons soar. And that's fine, at first—their majesty is comforting. They belong to a better world. But the daydream changes soon enough to a pair of green boys stumbling, fleeing flame.

Arthur roasting in his armor, his horse screaming. It canters in broken circles, smooth coat charred and burned. The limp body of the prince drags from the stirrup while the world goes up in fire around him. And Merlin watching, because if Balinor knows anything at all about the boy then he knows this is his greatest fear. Merlin will be helpless to stop it, and then he will die himself.

Before he can change his mind, Balinor is seeing it.

He stands, abruptly, strides for his cave, and tries to busy himself with cleaning up the remains of Arthur's ointment. Sorcerers' daydreams are more than just daydreams. He knows. He knows.

There are a million and one ways Prince Arthur's serving boy might die. Balinor doesn't know why, but he will not let it be this.

As he follows their surprisingly well-hidden trail, he tells himself he's gone soft. Merlin _is_ that deer in the forest; spirited, helpless. And _right_. The man he would like to be would go to Camelot. He would know when he was needed.

Arthur's instincts are good. But Balinor's woodcraft is honed by years, and he gets the better of the boys easily enough. Merlin, thank all the gods, puts down the sword he's fumbling with and stares in undisguised happiness.

As twilight creeps up on them, he and Merlin go for firewood. The boy picks among the kindling while he loads his arms with short branches. There comes that shining something again, rising in Merlin, as their routes bring them closer together.

When he looks, really looks, the boy is no deer. Full of life and heart, true; but burning, steadfast.

"Hunith is my mother," he says. "I'm your son."

Some flame leaps in Balinor too, from a few coals he thought had guttered out long ago. It startles him with its strength—a fierce and roaring joy, almost painful. The dragon in him rears its head.

He has no idea what to say. Something they have in common, apparently, because Merlin has said his piece and now he is all out of words. Balinor takes a few steps forward. He doesn't know how to be a father, wonders if it's too late now to try. He must offer the boy something.

Haltingly, he reaches out. Merlin's lean hands rise of their own accord. Balinor pushes the firewood into his arms, presses it close to his chest. He is quiet, his face shining with Merlin's reflected warmth. The boy has a beautiful smile.

While Arthur sleeps, Merlin proceeds to remind Balinor of Hunith so strongly that it hurts. He carves at a hunk of found wood to steady his nerves.

"Get some sleep," he tells the boy. And then, with a thrill of apprehension and affection, "Goodnight, son."

The "sleep well, father," he gets in return assures him that he is well and truly lost.

The fire burns low but steady against the night. Balinor carves; feeling for the hatchling he knows is hidden in the wood. Merlin drops off quickly, his dark head tucked deep in the blankets.

When he's sure both boys are asleep, Balinor's hands go still. He searches for his voice.

It lies where he first found it, in the fire at the pit of his belly. He reaches, breathes in deep. The dragons' tongue rises searing in his throat. Letting his eyes drift out of focus, he speaks words he has not heard since he was a young man. Low and rich and fierce, he sings.

This is the song dragons once sang to their children, a promise of wide skies and good hunts. A prayer that the fire will always burn strong, even in high wind and lashing rain.

The boy must have something of his. Balinor doesn't have much to give, but he can offer his hope and his blessing. Merlin will have to do the rest.


End file.
